


Mon cher

by DemonQueen666



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Adultery, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Ass Play, BDSM, Begging, Bisexuality, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Dominance, Dubious Consent, First Time Blow Jobs, Gaston (Disney) Lives, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Games, Oblivious Gaston (Disney), Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pansexual Character, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Restraints, Sexual Coercion, Spanking, The Prince Is A Rake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 14:02:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10720755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonQueen666/pseuds/DemonQueen666
Summary: “What is it that they say – a brave man dies but only once, while a coward dies a thousand deaths. I do wonder, Monsieur Gaston: how many times have you died?”





	Mon cher

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate summary: Gaston lives, only to find out that 18th-century French nobles have some interesting hobbies, and you should be careful who you go around making open-ended promises to.
> 
> (I haven't written or posted fanfic in like four years and this was what my brain came up with after seeing this family-friendly live-action Disney film. Good job, brain.)
> 
> (Try the grey stuff. It's delicious.)

The whole damn tower could have fallen, and taken him with it.

But his reflexes were better than that. One didn’t make a life being driven onward by action - drinking, hunting, fighting, fucking, whatever else remained after that – without these things becoming second nature.

He leapt clear in the nick of time, stepping off to one side, heart hammering as he sucked air back into his lungs through a mad grin that chilled his teeth. The castle was shedding rubble all around as the Beast died, and he looked up to watch it crumbling, barely holding in his laugh of triumph. He’d done it – the creature was dead, he knew his aim was true. Belle would be his, finally. Another grand feat of his to proclaim, another moment of glory to be commemorated on the tavern wall-

Unfortunately all the while parts of the castle kept falling. And so busy was he celebrating, it left him little warning when one piece smashed hard into the back of his skull.

Everything became darkness, and silence.

*

By the time he woke up again the curse had broken, the afflicted assumed their rightful nature and positions, reality was restored. His memory was back, along with that of the others.

Which meant when Gaston regained consciousness he quickly felt a sense of the extraordinarily deep trouble he might be in.

He hadn’t known, of course: he’d thought he was fighting a monster. A terrible Beast that had enslaved his bride-to-be. A haunted castle full of darkest magic.

That didn’t change however that he had done a determined job of trying to kill a Prince. That he had incited a mob against the land’s rightful ruler, a man born of noble blood.

Such men of noble blood - they didn’t tend to look too kindly on that sort of thing.

He spent about fifteen minutes slowly painfully fitting the pieces back into place inside his mind. After that his existence was given over to scheming and fretting.

He tried not to worry though. After all, he wasn’t dead, and he couldn’t help but notice, he wasn’t in a dungeon either. He was locked up yes, probably still somewhere within the castle, but in an otherwise undecorated chamber with a large, very nice-looking bed at its center.

But of course, he was Gaston. The villagers would understand, once he had the chance to explain everything to them. The people would forgive him, would rally around and speak out in his defense.

He only had to get past the Prince first.

But from what memory told him, this was a man his own age who’d spent his life on frippery and fancy parties. No doubt he was soft and ridiculous. Social rank above him or not, he would not be intimidated.

There hadn’t been a man born with the power to intimidate him.

To frustrate him, however: most definitely. Three whole days passed as he paced the floor. Pounding on the door and yelling produced no responses. The room was too high to escape through the window, and the size of the bed made it too awkward even for him to lift. Whenever a servant entered they were accompanied by two armed guards, and kept their eyes averted and wouldn’t answer regardless what he demanded them.

At least they weren’t letting him starve. Though rich food in smaller portions had never been to his taste – he made sure the servants knew his complaints to take back to the kitchen.

He was fair certain he saw one of them rolling her eyes, but it was the only reply he ever got.

Finally on the third day there was a long quiet exchange outside the door. He stood there, eyes squinted, listening.

Then in strolled the Prince.

It was funny to remember he had been the Beast. By comparison he was now far from impressive _._ He stood about as tall as Gaston, was as fair-haired as Gaston’s was dark.

His looks, his physique, he dismissed, as he regularly did the appearance of any man in comparison to himself – though there was something about his eyes, admittedly. He carried himself with that undefinable air, the way that men born with blood ordained by God did; a constant reminder of the authority they wielded that others did not.

The power to end a life with a wave of a hand, and no need for an explanation.

He set his jaw, stood tall, tried not to fidget his sudden uncertain discomfort.

“Well now. There you are.” The Prince held hands behind his back. “It’s not often I get a chance to look a man in the eye that would try so hard to kill me.”

The coolness of that statement held little promise.

He cleared his throat, reaching for charisma: “I can explain-”

“Oh no, don’t bother.” The Prince looked markedly annoyed. “Really, please don’t – we both know what happened. And we both know _why._ ”

He stared him down, waiting…until Gaston let the mask drop. He sneered, best as he was able.

And in response the Prince smirked back at him, like that was what he had been waiting for. “Now the question is, what are we to do about _that._ ”

His hands curled into fists as the Prince strutted back and forth, looking him over; speculating and distracted.

“Let’s see. It goes without saying, I should think, that at this point if I wanted you dead, you would be already. It goes without saying, that if I wanted you to rot in my dungeons forever, then you would. It isn’t only that you are my prisoner – you are my subject, and you committed a form of treason when you tried to kill me. _And_ my servants. Oh, _and_ my future father-in-law – and let’s not get into what you tried to do to my bride-to-be. She hasn’t the kindest of things to say about you, by the way.” He glanced over at him.

By this point Gaston had no feeling past his wrists, he had clenched his fingers so tight.

“Most in my position would string you up in my courtyard, or chain you to a wall, and have done with it. But I,” he paused, “I have…a different idea. Of course, it all depends on one thing.”

It took Gaston a minute to realize the Prince was waiting.

“Oh?” he forced out.

“Your willingness to cooperate.”

The Prince smiled when he said it. Outwardly it was happy enough, almost pleasant. But there was something off there. At the edges. Or the eyes perhaps. It was always the eyes, with this one – he brushed aside his own nagging sense of discomfort, that unrest, annoyed with himself. With this senseless time wasting.

“What do you mean? What do you want?”

“Now do remind me.” The Prince appeared to be thinking. Or pretending to think. “What was it you said to me, when I spared your life the first time? On the outside of the castle? What did you say to me before I let you go? What were you willing to give to me if only I would let you live?”

Resentment soured deep in his stomach. “I don’t remember,” he lied, brusquely.

“Come now. I think we can do better than that.” Still the same expression – pretending to think. Mocking him, now, but sharp. Like a cat toying with a mouse. About to pounce and there was nothing the other could do but wait, hold still and pray for the best.

His shoulders drew together tightly, his neck trying to sink into his spine as he stood there, uncomfortable.

The Prince was doing his best to make him feel _weak._ And it was working. His life and liberty sat poised precariously in the palm of the other’s hand.

“I believe your words were, ‘I’ll do anything’,” the Prince said at last. “You said _‘anything’._ Does that sound right? Do you remember saying it, now?”

He had to unhinge his jaw, swallow the rage that had dried his throat, before he was able to speak.

“Yes, I remember.”

The Prince’s smile was gone. His blue eyes piercing, he put a hand to his own ear and tipped it forward.

“What was that?” His voice was soft in a way that could only be described as _dangerous_. “To whom is it, Monsieur Gaston, that you are speaking?”

Any other man alive would have had his teeth broken in by now. But the reminder worked, unfortunately.

Gaston lifted his chin.

“Yes, I remember… _my lord_.”

The Prince let his hand fall, expression again more neutral. He exhaled the word, “Good.”

There was a silence that went on too long, prompting him to grow impatient enough to demand, “Well? What do you intend to do to me?”

“Find a use for you,” the Prince answered, strangely. “And perhaps, teach you a lesson.”

 _Teach him a lesson?_ It was really too much – every ounce of his not inconsiderable pride rankled.

“You can try,” he retorted, as defiant as he felt he could get away with.

But the Prince only smiled again. Then he snapped his fingers, loudly.

The guards shuffled in, set a small chest at the feet of their master, who sent them away with a nod. He waited until the door was shut again before looking back at the other man.

Languidly. Like he had about forgotten he was there.

“Take off your clothes.”

Gaston had expected – almost anything else. He stared rather openly.

“Oh, you heard me correctly. Going by that shocked look on your face.”

The Prince was silently laughing at him. That cleared up his hesitation rather effectively as anger rose once more.

So it was to be an attempt at humiliation, was it? Fine, _fine_. He’d show him. Gaston had nothing, absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. In front of a Prince or any other man or God.

He did not face away as in brisk movements he tugged off his boots, his shirt and vest, his stockings and breeches.

He kicked his clothing aside and then he stood there with legs apart, chest puffed, put his hands on his hips and looked the other man in the eye as he dared him - glaring, confident - to make a comment.

The Prince did not look away either. He took time letting his eyes drop down, past his chest, his stomach and thighs, not averting his gaze from his cock. He had played this game before.

“Very nice.” A wry observation.

He let out a short, unkind, _“Ha!”_ Not caring, in the heat of the moment, who was talking to.

“I should make you show me yours as well! Since, evidently, you consider me a rival.” He showed his teeth, using the tone of a man looking to find a fight.

The Prince’s responding smile this time was slow. His voice carried knowing confidence.

“Don’t worry. You’ll get a sense of it well enough before we’re through.”

Gaston’s expression fell, his brow wrinkled, not understanding.

“It’s funny you should bring up Belle however. It does come back to her – and not in the way that you think.”

And before he’d even the second necessary to feel rage at having that name spoken so carelessly – reminding him that he had lost, despite his best efforts, and the Prince had won – the next words came just as offhand:

“Lie down on the bed, on your stomach.”

Some instinct had determined where this headed while his mind struggled to catch up, sending a warning chill up his spine.

He wasn’t trying to look confident anymore as he stared at the Prince again. In response to his uneasy bewilderment, the other moved his head, nodding.  He repeated more softly, more intently, “Lie down on the bed, on your stomach.” Drawing the syllables out.

His movements felt strange as he followed the order, as if his limbs weren’t attached to his body – because surely, this wasn’t happening? He was misreading the situation somehow. Yes, they said many things about nobles, their appetites and perversions, but there was no chance, truly-

“Comfortable?”

The question seemed mocking, interrupting his delayed thoughts, so Gaston didn’t answer. He only frowned, annoyed, squirming on his belly against the soft mattress.

It was better than anything he had ever owned, much to his irritation. It was better than anything anyone in the whole village had ever owned. Or ever would own, probably.

He heard that wooden chest opening. The Prince started to speak once more.

“The thing about Belle – she’s so clever. So determined. That bright mind and perceptive nature that makes her eyes light up more than any precious gem I’ve ever held. Oh, she’s a confident woman, that’s for certain, and she considers herself anything other than some naïve sheltered maid. Some innocent. But the thing is…Belle is. An innocent.”

The Prince had been waxing on in an admiring way. Listening with a scowl Gaston barely paid attention as he walked to the front of the bed.

Until he reached out, took Gaston’s right hand before him, and fastened it with a cuff that he chained to the bedframe.

And still speaking idly, he took his left hand and put it also in an identical cuff that he too chained to the bedframe.

“It’s not her fault. Or any failing on her part, really. But she can’t help it. No matter what she is still a young woman, raised under limited means – and no books would have fallen into her lap to help illuminate certain parts of the world, the more _mature_ reality they keep hidden from maidens. The unsavory education we must admit that men such as you and I receive and take part in, too easily. Such things are not suited for a young lady’s consumption. Even one as curious as Belle. Where would she ever even go to uncover it?”

As the Prince mused, Gaston was staring at his own hands. Still trying to grasp what happened. Eyes growing wider he tugged experimentally – the chains, and the bed, were strong enough he wasn’t breaking them.

Ludicrously behind their black leather the cuffs were lined with something that didn’t chafe his wrists at all. As if they’d been designed to serve their purpose in comfort.

The reality was sinking in. He felt like he was drowning in frigid mud.

“And it isn’t as if I don’t love her. Truly, I love her.” In his pause the Prince sounded pained. “I love her for what she is, and have no desire to change her. It is myself I worry about.”

Head pressed to one side against the bedsheets Gaston struggled to understand him, his own breathing hitching.

“Because I…no doubt you’ve heard my reputation.” The Prince was at his legs now, chaining ankles in the same way he had wrists: first one, then the other. “I was a rake, for years and years, before the curse befell me. I see no point in denying it.”

There was almost fond recollection in his tone, yet at the same time regretting.

“Not the _worst_ of men, but, well – fittingly, considering what I became: an animal. I collected lovely damsels. One right after the other. And when I grew bored, then I’d cast around for a young man with that pout to his lips, that secret shine to his eyes that said he’d be willing to be corrupted. I was insatiable, truly. To me they were all the same. All that mattered was that they were…beautiful.”

That word seemed to hang in the air, even as it landed like a blow in the pit of his stomach. _Beautiful._

Twisting his neck, having to gather nerve to do it, he looked back where the Prince was still standing. His expression was wistful. But his eyes-

He had seen that look, in some of the most dangerous animals he ever hunted. The haunting boldness of one willing to lash out and take whatever lay within reach.

Because they knew their own strength and felt no fear of death. They knew that nothing could stop them.

“I want to love Belle the way she deserves,” the Prince declared. “The way that our love – purest, true love – deserves. I will bring her to our bed on our wedding night and I will be a gentleman lover. I don’t want to…teach her, the things that I know. I don’t want to _dirty_ her. She would accept, perhaps, for my sake, if she thought it would please me…God forgive me, maybe she would even enjoy it. But whatever it did for my body, it would only burden my heart and sicken my soul.”

He leaned forward, looking him in the eye – and Gaston flinched into the mattress, trying to burrow his body far away as it could get.

Too, too late, he realized; far too late.

“But still I worry about myself, you see. What if, for all that the curse changed me, taught me, what if I still…hunger? What if I can’t unlearn my appetites, and threaten to grow bored with that purest love, if I have no other way of sating my rougher pleasures? My passions?”

The Prince’s voice lowered to a murmur. Every word sounded reasonable, almost sweet, how he spoke it.

“And that, _mon cher_ Monsieur Gaston, is where you come in.” He breathed the familiarity out, heated, so unexpected. “After all you said you would do…anything. If only you could live.”

He had to swallow back a sound it took a beat to recognize – a whimper. He was still too shocked to move as the Prince reached out with one hand and stroked the back of his head.

“Such marvelous hair you have.”

He snapped the thin black ribbon still restraining it. Working his fingers in, he carded long dark locks down across Gaston’s neck and shoulders, as freely and with as much relish as if he’d any right to do so. Without second’s thought.

Like a lover _._

Somehow it was this, _this_ that finally brought home to Gaston the reality of what was happening to him.

Entire body tensed he tried to pull away, tugging with his might at the chains, the four points he had been helplessly spread out to. Yanking them back and forth.

It was not too late, he was still intact, if only he could break free – if worse came to worse, he could _yell_ -

“You said anything.” The Prince reminded him – a whisper now, bordering on threat. Fingers curled harder in his hair, not enough to hurt but enough to turn possessive. “Remember? ‘I’ll do anything. Don’t hurt me’.”

Voice shaking, he protested, “I didn’t mean-”

“ _Anything_.” Releasing his hair the Prince cupped the back of his head, petting him even as he pushed his chin down into the bed. It was a playful gesture, with no force behind it – the indignity of it stung far worse than any show of power or pain. “Now, tell me – are you a man of your word, or not?”

Gaston called him a name that had started a knockdown fight in every barroom he ever said it in; the Prince threw his head back and laughed, no doubt amused by the rough vulgarity.

Breathing hard he pressed his right cheek and side of his jaw to the sheets, not daring to look at the Prince as he tried to _think_ , desperately.

He cared about his honor. Well – within practicality, obviously; there were some things he’d do to get his own way. But he was a soldier and a fighter, he had _dignity_. It was important, so important, to that crucial sense he had of himself.

Ironically it caught him in a terrible position now. Because what was he supposed to do: let the Prince bugger him, or tell him “no” and therefore be branded a liar?

He had said, he did say, he would do _anything_. If he went back on that now, maybe only the two of them would know. It was still two too many.

Gaston would know. It would poison his sense of pride, fester inside of him every day.

Besides which if he backed out now – he might well get the punishment he’d already been spared. A lifetime in a cell. Or a noose.

He had been willing to beg rather than be killed in a fair fight. He was always willing to trick or lie when the opportunity presented itself to get what he wanted. And, he realized in that moment: he was willing to be made sodomite so long as it kept him alive and free, so long as no one – certainly not this _Prince_ – could call him an oath-breaker.

It was stubborn and it was stupid and neither word occurred to him because it was the only way he lived.

He stopped struggling. Breath ragged with resentment he lay there on his belly, gaze fixed ahead in a fiery glower through the hair fallen in his eyes.

The Prince seemed to be counting for some indeterminate time before he demonstrated enough surrender, that he felt free to run a brief caress to the small of his back. Gaston gagged on his bile, shuddered, bit back every retort or word of protest that wanted to rise inside him.

He could do nothing. Nothing.

“I had a feeling.” The Prince sounded smug – condescending, as he remarked, “What is it that they say – a brave man dies but only once, while a coward dies a thousand deaths. I do wonder, Monsieur Gaston: how many times have you died?”

The insult landed too deep in his breastbone for him to dig out in time. But he pretended not to notice; he lifted his chin and spat out, “Big words, from a man whose antlers I should be using as a coatrack.”

The Prince only laughed at him again.

“ _Mon dieu_ , you know, I actually like your spirit! It’s charming, in a disgusting way. How a grown man could live so long without being the least bit self-aware, who knows really.”

He shook his head with nobleman’s amusement as he walked out of sight.

The chest opened and closed again, and the Prince had to be toying with something in his hands – he heard the creak of leather.

“Now let’s see. What are we to do next?”

The air split with sound as he swung what could only be a riding crop, striking Gaston hard on one side of his ass.

He gave a short bellow of pain, too caught off-guard to stop himself.

“Hmm, what was that?” Another _thwack_ , just as hard, to the other side.

 _“Ouch,”_ he snapped, not sure what stung worse, the skin on his backside or the humiliation of being spanked.

Fingers splayed he shot the Prince a hard look of reproach. The other noticed and cocked his head aside.

“So you don’t like pain. Being on the receiving end, that is.”

As if needing further proof of this he struck him twice more – this time across each side of his upper back, near his shoulders. He flinched, back arching, with angry audible wince both times.

“No! I do _not_. What’s the matter with you? Is this _truly_ necessary?”

It wasn’t the pain that made him upset. Bad enough what he’d agreed to: he was losing what little remained of his temper, to think he’d submitted only to be beaten like a convict too.

“See, this is good, though. I’m glad we’ve established this.”

That airy tone threw him and he fell silent once more, listening with apprehension.

“Pain and pleasure are solidly separate to you. Not that that surprises me, given your character. I’d already guessed as much. But, it means I’ll be better able to tell just whatever reaction it is I’m getting, from what I do to you next.”

The riding crop was tossed aside, either back in the chest or to the floor. What came next was – it sounded like a bottle of something? Liquid contents shifting. A stopper being pulled – and there was that smell. Not floral but pungent, herbal. Oil.

The Prince was rubbing his hands together – coating them, that slick sound. Coating his hands in oil.

He curled his lips and clenched his jaw and held his breath so he remained silent, but the flinch still went through his entire body as two fingers were unceremoniously inserted inside him.

The mattress sank slightly, the Prince’s weight leaning against it, getting comfortable. He was moving slow and with purpose as he fingered him, preparing him.

Gaston squeezed his eyes shut, tried not to think about what he was feeling – but he had never been a creative soul at the best of times. He didn’t know how to do much besides live in the moment.

His fingers had curled back into fists. The muscles in his calves had gone completely tense. This wasn’t supposed to happen – it wasn’t _allowed_ to happen. Not to him, not to him…

“I wonder,” said the Prince, as if he was actively reading his mind, “all the women you’ve fucked over the years – and I know, I’m sure, there have been several, paid and otherwise. You’re awful but you’re a rogue with a glimmer in your eye. And God save their souls, young girls are a very particular kind of foolish. A wink from you, one glimpse at that broad chest, these fine legs-” His free hand stroked a long line from just above one knee down to an ankle, giving the restraint there a teasing tug. “-and it’s up and off with their skirts. Am I right? Never mind you are the very definition of the man their mothers always warned them about.”

He wanted badly for the Prince to stop talking. Unfortunately he couldn’t find where his own voice had gone.

“But where was I? Ah, right. I was wondering, the women you’ve been with: have you ever let them do much of anything to you in return? Bite you, scratch you, anything at all?” The Prince was wry now, bordering on shrewd. “Do you let them hold you down and pull your hair? Do you let them ride you from above? Or – and I think this is far, far more likely – you take everything for yourself.”

He rolled his fingers along the insides of his ass, as if worried to miss a single spot. It was taking everything Gaston had not to squirm in response to the psychic agony the mixture of words and motions was delivering.

“You’re rough, and you push and you grab, grunting and grasping, and you have to _dominate_. Don’t you, you’re all bark _and_ all bite, and you don’t know how to share. You must always be completely superior, completely controlling, because anything less would be unforgivable to your tremendously bloated sense of pride. Your identity as the war-time Captain, a hero of the village – a _man_.”

He had stopped smoothing his fingers around and now he was pushing – pushing them up and further in, as the muscles in Gaston’s back tightened reflexively. But the Prince’s fingers were still twisting, seeking out…something.

“So I think you have never let anyone do anything to you, that could be the least bit construed as submission.” The Prince sounded, almost, like he was trying to tell a joke: “And now, you are experiencing _this_. What a vast difference for you that is going to make.”

Whatever the Prince had been looking for – he found it. He _pressed_ down – what was that? It sent an alarming shiver, a tingle, all across his underside. Alarming because it-

A dawning, disbelieving sense of horror swept through him. He panted, openmouthed and desperate, eyes wide and blindly unseeing.

He tried to clamp down on that sensation, trying to deny what was happening.

The Prince’s voice was a low singsong.

“I am so glad that my servants left you the supplies to wash yourself. I am so glad that you used them,” he whispered. “I am so glad that you did such a very, very thorough job. But of course you would. You adore your body, don’t you? Not that I can entirely blame you to be honest.”

The Prince had stood and with free hand reached to cup his cock and give it a squeeze – not hard enough to hurt. But enough to make it clear that he was experiencing the very start of an erection. Gaston shut his eyes tight, shivering with confused mortification.

“Look at you,” the Prince all but purred – obvious he was drinking in the sight of the other’s naked body from his position above. “I have sculptures in this castle that were carved by the ancient Greeks, and yet some of them don’t even compare halfway. Did you see them, on your way in originally? Or were you in too much of a hurry – rushing, as always, to claim your prize-”

He moved his squeezing hand to the very base of his shaft, and flicked hard at whatever that perfect terrible spot was on the inside of him.

His mouth open, the word _“stop”_ ready to explode from his lungs – he swallowed it back down, even though it burned, misery and hatred bubbling. They had a deal. There was no turning back. He wouldn’t give the other the satisfaction.

Just like that the Prince withdrew. He was left trembling on the bed, struggling to breathe normally, every muscle tightened.

From somewhere behind there was the shuffle of fabric and the soft clink of a belt buckle as the Prince undid his breeches.

The bottle, again. More oil rubbed against skin. Then the Prince came back over and, resting hands purposefully on his waist, began sliding cock home inside him.

“There.” His polished, aristocratic voice was rough. “Is that big enough for you, do you think, to compare?”

The idea Gaston would be able to say anything at that point was laughable.

But then the Prince didn’t seem to need a reply. He was rocking against him slowly now, finding a rhythm, holding him by the hips.

“Now, now. Don’t hold your breath – that won’t help you,” he noted, looking down, seeing how wracked the other man was. He coaxed, “Come on. Let it out. Gather it in your ribcage-” he wasn’t certain why he followed the order, but he did, “nice and slow. There. Much better. Isn’t it?”

He exhaled out, the clench to his body forcibly soothed away. The Prince had found his rhythm now and was getting faster. There was nothing he could do but breath with it in time.

The Prince grasped his cock again. A groan of protest escaped him.

“Did you say something?”

His voice came out muffled, distorted through his teeth, sounding nothing like him. “…No.”

That grip tightened on his cock, pumping up and down, not quite in time to the Prince’s thrusts but close. Too close. He was overcome with involuntary arousal. All the while the Prince kept rutting away, inhales turning to quiet grunts of satisfaction.

He reached to thread fingers in Gaston’s hair, tugging back on his scalp, forcing his neck up. “No… _what?_ ”

He breathed a sound somewhere between another groan and a whine. The anticipation building, he was unsure whose release he dreaded first. “No, my lord,” he forced out.

A throaty chuckle was torn from the Prince. He let go of his hair, seeking his goal with increased fervor, energy mounting. The fact he could somehow keep talking at this point was nothing short of alarming.

Gaston couldn’t move, could barely think. He lay there helplessly feeling how hard he was in the other’s hand, how hard the other was inside of him. All he could do was lay there, and listen.

“Here is what I know.”

The Prince’s words were a staccato between thrusts. He was nearly there now – they both were, despite all Gaston’s resistance. He shut his eyes, mouth opened in a grimace as the white-hot pleasure-pain built up inside him, too insistent to be ignored.

“I know that you are going to go back to your little village, and your little home, and your town square, and your tavern, and your little life. And you’ll still be a big, strong man, with your big hands, and your long legs, and your tall strong body, and from the outside it might look like nothing has changed. No one around for miles that could ever stand up to you. No one able to stop you from taking what you want.”

The Prince’s words were slurred a bit with half-focus yet still terribly audible.

“But from now on, every time you’d go to silence another, shout over them with your boasting – every time you think to knock someone down simply because you can – and every time you would force attention on a woman that she never asked you for. You’re going to remember this. You’re going to remember this moment, this feeling. Because even if no one else knows what happened here, you will. You’ll always know.”

Gaston gasped and bucked. The picture filled him with resentment and dread.

“You’re going to remember the time you were made to feel _small_.”

His eyes were screwed so tightly shut they hurt. The taunting promise felt like a curse, a prophecy – and it was this that broke him open, despairing moan escaping his lips as he threw his head back.

The Prince came but a few moments later, one last hard jerk next to finish Gaston off.

His legs were shaking. He didn’t recall grabbing the chains around his wrists for support. The Prince’s body collapsed into his slightly, weight pressing down against him.

For an eternity he heard the blood rushing through his skull, their mixed heavy breathing.

The Prince redressed himself first. Then he returned to the bed where Gaston lay, deliriously convinced somehow every bone in his body had been broken. Why else couldn’t he move?

He stared at the ceiling blindly as the Prince unchained him.

He stroked a palm down his spine, then rubbed him comfortingly between the shoulders.

“Get some rest. You’re going to be sore the next few days.”

It took too long for the words to register – the door was already shut tight by the time he sat up. The Prince was gone, taking his wooden chest with him, and he was still locked in, and-

Pain shot up his back as he twisted, unthinking. He let out an angry yowl with indignation as his insides seared and throbbed. The final aching awful proof of what had been done to him. What he had _let_ be done.

No; that wasn’t it, though; he hadn’t any choice.

It wasn’t as if he-

He swallowed hard, choking on bad taste as he looked down and saw the signs of his release smeared across the bedsheets.

*

Three more days went by.

The physical pain faded. The other pain, feeding his determined rage, grim inside of him, only kept building.

Bad enough to demand such things of him in exchange for his life and honor. But the way the Prince had gone about it, forcing him into being partner to his own undoing – that he had made him doubt himself; actually made even a part of him _enjoy_ it…

It was a sin, an offense against not God but against the masculinity to which Gaston held himself. Instead of the injured party, he had been twisted into being an accomplice.

He made up his mind quickly he was going to kill the Prince. It was the only real solution.

The Prince would be dead so there would be no one left, no one else would ever know. Except him – and he could go home, and get drunk, start a fight or find a girl at the tavern, saddle up his horse for a long ride and go hunting. And he could forget. Yes, he had faith in himself, with the fervent certainty that he simply _had_ to. He could pretend he never experienced…this.

So long as there was no one else who existed in the whole wide world who also knew.

He wasn’t sure how he was going to do it. Or what would come after, how he would explain himself, how he would escape. But those parts didn’t matter. The important part was that he knew _what_ he was going to do.

It gave him something to focus on. Anything other than the alternative.

Those three days went by and the Prince returned. He walked in without preamble as if he expected Gaston to be waiting for him.

He supposed that he was. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go.

He couldn’t remember what the Prince had been wearing last time. Today he was wearing blue. Bright blue, vibrant, beneath finely-stitched brocade that brought out his eyes. Made them gleam with intensity.

Gaston stood, shoulders lifted, fists tight as if he were ready to do something impulsive and regrettable and – _satisfying_ \- even though they both knew he wasn’t. The Prince’s face was unreadable as they simply stared at each other.

At last he said, quiet, “Take off your clothes.”

He was less quick this time as he obeyed. There was a fever in his mind circling, that went nowhere, as he kept stealing glances at the Prince, only then to stare sullenly back down at the floor.

But he straightened up with a jolt as the Prince stepped toward him, closing the distance down to an arm’s length. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the Prince as he waited, intensely wary.

“Do we need the restraints today?” the Prince queried. Casually. Like he spoke about the weather.

It took him a moment to understand him – another to make up his mind.

“No.”

“No?” the Prince repeated, watching his reaction.

He shook his head, throat working as he tasted indignity and a promise at the same time. “No.”

“Well all right then. Very good.”

The fact the Prince was happy about it was aggravating. But he had a plan.

He would wait, until the Prince let his guard down. They would be alone – he would have to wait until he was finished with the oil, he wouldn’t be close enough before that. But after, when he went to fuck him again – when he started, when there was little distance between them, and his mind was distracted.

There would be no chance to call for the guards. It would be over too quickly.

He left his clothes in a heap beside his boots and stood with profile toward the Prince. Not showing off this time though he didn’t turn away.

He could read the Prince’s long look for what it was, as he admired the curves and muscles of Gaston’s body.

His mouth set in a line he met the other’s gaze, bitter, and then he pulled his own hair loose, shaking it out between his fingers before smoothing it back down.

The Prince’s smirk was slow and savoring.

Too late he realized that’d been a mistake – he’d wanted to not give him the satisfaction this time. Now it was clear he saved him a step. Instead of an act of defiance, he had done him a favor.

He openly scowled as without command he went to lie across the bed.

The Prince went for the oil - as he waited Gaston crossed arms tight against his body, resting face on his forearms. His pulse was thudding, how he always felt when he knew the moment to act was swift coming.

Biding his time yet remaining sharp, watching for it. That opening.

The Prince began the same way he had before: two fingers, coated in oil.

He tensed and shivered again, the sensation too unfamiliar to him, disturbed by the sharp warmth rising slow from down by his belly.

“Now, remember to breathe,” the Prince chided in a murmur, noticing the tautness stretched between his shoulders. “You’re only going to hurt yourself.”

“If _one_ of us gets hurt here today-” He bit the rest back too late. He hadn’t been able to stop himself. The Prince fell silent.

He breathed shallowly, afraid he had made him suspicious and ruined everything.

But the Prince didn’t stop his action. He was as thorough this time but it seemed he was infuriatingly even slower. His touch was lighter as well, at times feeling like he was even trying to _tickle_ him from the inside. He was trying to get him to enjoy it again.

His fingers curled back into fists as impulses and emotions warred within himself.

“I spoke to Belle, just the other day.” The Prince spoke idly – and Gaston froze. “I’ve been trying to make her understand, you see. Hint at the parts of my past, my wicked heathen ways, she hasn’t yet realized. It’s only fair she knows who she’s marrying. She thinks the worse thing I could be guilty of is cruelty to my subjects.” He huffed and sighed. “I suppose that she’s right – but there are different kinds of ‘worse’.”

Hearing Belle’s name brought up as he lay there being buggered with another man’s fingers, breathing through his nose and fighting off some primal form of arousal, made him want to shrink down and die. He didn’t think the Prince did it on accident. Nothing he did so far felt like an accident.

“Would you believe…”

The Prince drawled his words – and he added an extra finger, stroking upward, hard to the left. Whatever Gaston had been planning was vanishing in a white haze of powerless disorientation.

“When I tried to hint at her that I had many, many lovers before, both male and female, she couldn’t seem to understand that. She _tried_. It’s not prudery, it’s true inexperience.”

He gave a mirthless chortle: “She asked me, actually looked me in the eye, and asked me – with all the tentativeness of youth – how two men even _could_ be together. Her love of tinkering, and yet she couldn’t grasp the mechanics. Isn’t that funny?”

Gaston choked. He could think of literally nothing right now he wanted to hear about less. “You talk too much,” he ground out.

The Prince had sounded almost somber, but now he brightened as again he laughed.

“God, you’re right! Oh, but I do enjoy it. Conversation is a dying art form.” He pulled free of him, standing again. “But then, so are other things.”

There was a wicked humor in how he said it. Gaston was struggling to remember his plan.

It was hard to move. His muscles felt shaky. His cock had started to throb, persistent, but he tried to ignore it. It wasn’t a bad as the other time. But it was – he felt _distracted_.

He could hear the Prince shuffling with his own clothes, and he realized the moment he’d been waiting for was at hand. His timing was off; maybe he could still salvage it. Gathering breath he pushed up on his hands, moving to a kneeling position.

He was too slow. His body felt strange to him, made foreign by things he was experiencing; he was slick on the inside, his muscles loosened.

And then the Prince returned.

His first reaction was to go still in panic, thinking he had been found out. But the Prince didn’t seem to mind he changed position without prompting.

“There, there. That’s all right. It’s fine. Here – move forward a bit, give me some room-”

His hand was on Gaston’s cock again, palm and fingers wrapped entirely around. Even in human form his hands were far from small it seemed. He rubbed Gaston with confident steady motion, carelessly possessive, working his thumb against his slit.

Gaston’s breath caught in his throat, his teeth clenched; eyes threatening to roll back in his skull as he fought not to give into pleasure.

The Prince nudged him forward on the bed and he reacted automatically, moving where he was bidden like some dumb animal.

As the Prince knelt behind him he felt a terrific shock – he had thought the other only removed his breeches again. But he hadn’t. He had undressed completely.

Their naked bodies close, he could feel the Prince’s burgeoning erection brush against the back of his thighs. The ripple of his biceps moved against his skin as he reached across him.

He had been around plenty of other naked men. Growing up, long trips for hunting, time in his regiment – he had never particularly noticed the bodies of the others before. Felt no need to pay attention.

Now it was impossible not to notice.

The Prince cupped his ass and then put the head of his cock into place, working it in – it felt rougher, even harder from this angle. Gaston had to set his jaw, forcing himself to relax with a suppressed sound.

The muscles of the Prince’s chest and abdomen were against his back where their bodies pressed together. The closest he’d ever been to another man like this was in a wrestling match and this, this was – so different. Every place where skin met skin felt like a searing line of contact, tingling in confusion.

That hand was still on his cock – it clamped down, hard, at the very base. The Prince had gotten him more than halfway erect and now made it impossible for him to come. Gaston swore involuntarily, gasping.

The Prince moved against his hips, thrusting. Right hand staying put on his cock. Left hand fisted in his hair, pulling head back so he could speak directly into his ear, that confident voice a growl.

“I wonder if you were to see Belle now, could you even look her in the eye? After this?”

He ground against him once, meaningfully. Gaston gave a short, keening moan.

“Then again before long you two will finally have something important in common.”

His breath was hot against his chin and throat.

“You’ll both know what it feels like to have me finish inside of you.”

Gaston growled back, something finally breaking, _“Shut…up.”_

The Prince laughed, low and throaty, before nipping his earlobe. He still had him in that death-grip and the throbbing in his cock was getting truly unbearable.

He was thrust into, long and hard, the Prince no longer holding back the sounds he made in pleasure. His free arm crossed the front of Gaston’s chest grasping him by the opposite bicep, holding to him tightly as possible as he fucked him harder, harder-

Gaston’s mouth was parted, breath hissing in past his teeth and out again in needy grunts. He reached straight back with his left hand, seizing a fistful of the Prince’s fair tresses, grabbing to him by the back of the skull ensuring they were closer together – closer, closer.

He rocked against the Prince, a counterpoint to each thrust. Their bodies together over and over in collision of friction and sweat. He could tell by sound both their mouths were open, grimacing, in the abyss between pleasure and pain.

The Prince clung to his cock and his arm and he clutched the Prince by his hair. There was no parting them.

The motion had taken over completely, the hardest roughest ride he ever had. He was past thinking – past feeling, almost, so overwhelmed; an end unto itself.

He could feel the Prince grinning against the line of his jaw.

“Are you ready for it to be over now?”

“Yes,” Gaston hissed, struggling, barely able to speak.

The Prince was still rasping into his ear. “What do we say?”

He thought they couldn’t possibly be rutting any faster, motion building to unavoidable climax.

“Nnngh-”

The Prince loosened his hand enough to make him want to scream. “What do we say?”

The word rose from his mind like molasses: “Please.”

The Prince gave a pleased hum, he was on the right track. Still he prompted again, “What do we _say?_ ”

He could feel everything and nothing in his body. He needed release from this intensity, or he truly believed he might die.

He had to scrape the words from his tongue, recall his voice where it lay trapped in his throat, and when he managed to push it came as a strangled shout, “Please, my lord - _please!”_

The Prince gave one last thrust, making his own broken sound of bliss, and he released his hand ensuring they both finished in almost an instant.

Gaston closed his eyes with a moan of desperate pleasure as he slid free from his grasp.

And then the next second his eyes flew open again. Even as afterglow seeped into his muscles, memory reared at him past denial.

Cold trapped his bones, as he realized that he had been begging - and what he had been begging for.

The Prince sounded woozy but satiated. He ran his fingers lightly across his hair, and petted the back of his neck. Gaston couldn’t move.

“Good, _mon cher_ Monsieur Gaston,” he said, sighing shakily. “Very good. Very, very _good_.”

He didn’t know how much longer the Prince stayed. He didn’t know when he gathered up his things and his clothes and went away.

For a long time he stayed there crouching on the bed, staring down at his own spread hands and seeing nothing.

*

Only one full day passed this time before the Prince returned.

He walked in alone. He didn’t have the wooden chest with him. He was quiet, at first, very quiet.

So was Gaston. He laid on the bed, half-propped on his elbows, and when the Prince entered he sat up enough further so he could watch him, carefully.

But he said nothing. There seemed to be nothing more for him to say.

He stayed where he was, fully clothed, hair tied back. Limbs drawing slightly closer to his body and feeling too self-conscious to move so long as he could see the Prince’s eyes on him.

They watched each other in this way. The moment felt heated, not necessarily with tension; it simply – was.

He didn’t know what the Prince was seeing. But he – he saw something that reminded him of being deep in the woods, rounding a bend and finding himself face to face with one of the bigger predators in the forest. Locking eyes with it across that distance – gaze so unreadable, yet intent and knowing.

Even an experienced hunter left frozen in time and place with that majestic sense of awe.

Somehow the human Prince had become far more intimidating to him, than ever he had been as the Beast.

And more than ever before he felt awareness of the power this other man wielded. In his blood, by his birth, in his wealth and his property and the subjects at his command. It was in every inch of his bearing. He walked into a room and hardly needed the order to make people bow – it was second sense, their knees wanting to do it automatically.

Yes, he felt anxiously aware of how much power the other had. How he could have him killed in an instant if he wanted, perhaps.

But more significant than that: there was this unique power he wielded over Gaston, now.

As he and the Prince gazed at each other, wordlessly, he felt intensely aware of his own breathing, the feel of his clothes against his skin. He swallowed thinly and saw those eyes track the movement of his throat, trailing down to where the top buttons of his shirt were left open revealing some chest hair.

Other than that he didn’t move, because he couldn’t. He felt like he didn’t have the right. Even his body didn’t seem to belong to him anymore: it was as if it belonged to the Prince.

Surely he’d done enough, shown his mastery over it, to claim it after the past few days.

He didn’t understand what was happening to him. His own feelings left him uncomfortable – afraid. Of both the feelings themselves and what they might drive him to do.

But there was no resistance anymore. All the anger had gone out of him, all the fight.

In the face of the Prince’s power, his authority, he became meek. Compliant. And not because there was no point in resisting, no.

Much as it disturbed him, it seemed his body had developed this deep yearning to do whatever he was told.

The Prince lifted a hand in a beckoning gesture and nodded. Gaston mutely got off the bed, moving towards him.

For the first time in his life he was not standing so tall anymore. His chin wasn’t lifted and his gaze kept dropping, darting.

He knew the Prince could see right through him. Right now it was the last thing that he wanted.

He stopped just out of reach of the other, standing directly before him. The Prince let a meaningful silence build before breaking it himself.

“Well?” He prompted, head tilted forward to try to look Gaston in the eye. His eyebrows were raised. “Nothing to say today for ourselves?”

He was a man asking a question who already knew the answer. Asking just to make the point.

His throat felt tight. He kept his head up as he shook it “no” in reply.

“I see.” The Prince looked him over. “I have to say this change in attitude is…rather refreshing. Becoming, even.” A beat, as he considered. “For however long we can make it last.”

He stepped forward, closing the distance. Gaston’s breath hitched involuntarily as he moved nearer, and cursed himself for it. But he knew better now than to try making it go away.

The Prince had that musing tone again, one that made him seem older than he was – air of culture drawing out the differences in their backgrounds.

“It has its own sort of comfort, doesn’t it,” he remarked. “Submission. Giving up on power, giving up control. Surrendering. For once not having to contend with anything, even one’s own will.”

There was a wry smile playing about his lips.

“As strange and contrary as it may seem, in a way...when we are adrift, letting go to sink down into it, nothing can feel more – safe.”

His brow furrowed, not understanding. This sort of talk was entirely beyond him. He merely stood where he was, confused.

The Prince wasn’t surprised he gave no reply. He looked away for a moment, clearing his throat.

“You may have considered by now what eventually is going to happen. If I intend to keep you locked in this room forever. But I do not. In fact I think after today…a few hours from now even, probably less, you’re going to be allowed to leave.”

He started. This was unexpected. But especially so was how he realized he felt no sense of relief.

Freedom was promising, but what was building up most inside him was a rush of…panic.

The Prince kept speaking. “You’ll get back your horse, and your coat, and even your weapons.” He chortled, confiding, “My servants think I’m mad for that last part, but I overruled them. You’ll leave this castle, you’ll go back to Villeneuve I assume, and after that, you can go back to your life.”

The source of his panic was obvious now.

Back to his life: where he was the proudest, strongest, most self-assured person in the village. One everyone looked up to – a man among men. One who was always in control.

Could he act like nothing had changed, like he hadn’t been – like he didn’t know what it felt like to have the Prince’s cock inside of him, his fingers pulling his hair, that voice low in his ear-

What if when he went to speak or move, he remembered? Confidence slipping, feeling like a fraud. Skin crawling with uncertainty, sweating cold beneath his shirt. His voice might falter and, how would they look at him then? Would they see the change in him?

Would they guess _why?_

The Prince’s eyes danced as he watched his face. He was laughing at him, now; there was no doubt. Silently. But laughing.

“That is, if you want to go back,” he drew out, voicing what they both knew. Pointed: “If you _can_.”

He felt such dread and despair as he stared at him.

 _‘This is your fault’_ , he thought. But even as he stood there, heart thudding - no angry words came to his tongue, and his fists refused to rise. The hatred wasn’t stronger than whatever else he felt when he remembered the Prince’s hands on him; it locked his body in place. Burning and longing, helpless.

He did nothing. He merely stood where he was. Unable to censor the unease and anxiety from his face, unable to act on it either.

He waited for the Prince. He couldn’t speak.

The Prince was looking him over again, eyes half-lidded.

 “I think,” he determined at length, like he’d been contemplating a matter of greatest importance, “that today I’d like to see you down on your knees.”

He didn’t think about the why. He merely did as he was told.

He sank down, legs slightly apart, kneeling on the floor. Soon as he’d gotten settled he looked back up again, meeting the Prince’s eyes.

There was something vaguely admiring about his gaze. Like he was viewing an artwork.

“Oh, yes. I do like the look of that, very much.”

He circled Gaston once, slow, taking in every angle. When he got back to the front again he stood closer so he was right before him.

He set his hands on his own hips, tilted his chin in an encouraging manner.

“Well, go on, then.”

It belatedly dawned on him, the only thing that the Prince could want from this particular position.

“You…want me to-?” He stared at the front of Prince’s breeches, then up at his face.

The Prince nodded, looking like he thought it was silly he even had to ask.

His jaw worked, stomach clenching, feeling nervous and resentful. “I don’t know _how_.”

The Prince gave a snort. “I know you’ve been to a brothel before. I’ve faith you can figure it out.”

Prickling with annoyance, he frowned and glared. But, well: he wasn’t _wrong_.

His fingers felt stiff, almost fumbling as he reached for the fastenings at the front of the Prince’s breeches, his belt. He didn’t dare look up again. Only focused on what was directly in front of him.

When the Prince’s cock slid free, hanging there at his level, he kept his face blank.

Leaning in, he tried not to come across timid as he suddenly felt, as he took him into his mouth.

He almost missed hearing the pleased inhale from above him. He was trying to process the bizarre sensation.

His mouth was big along with rest of him, and considering he’d both hearty appetite and rough table manners he was no stranger to taking whole bites in one swallow. The Prince however was as large as he where a man counted, and already he was beginning to understand how some women he’d encountered had seemed to struggle at giving him what he deemed a proper suck.

He never tried imagining this from the other side before.

Tentatively he started the motion, lips drawing against thickening skin. He sucked with a moderate amount of enthusiasm; irritated by the genuine concern he could feel that he wasn’t going to be very good at this.

He felt a hand reach down to him, knuckles curling between locks of hair.

Trying to take the Prince all in, something at the back of his throat itched, threatening to make him gag – he had to stop. He tilted his head to the right, seeking a better angle to compensate.

“Slowly,” the Prince advised; “Slowly. Better for you and for me if you go slow.”

He pulled back a bit more and tried again, slower. He could feel the heat of the Prince’s blood, the way his cock bobbed as his arousal was growing.

“Ah – yes. Yes. That’s good…” The fingers in his hair curled tighter. The Prince had to be watching his face, seeing when he struggled, trying to figure out how to move his lower jaw. “Breathe through your nose. Steady. There we are.”

His voice was gently encouraging.

“Try using your tongue more. But easy on the teeth.”

He moved in and out on the other’s length, having found a pace. He shut his eyes. He licked, sucked – one hand slid around the Prince’s calf. He felt the muscle there quivering. There was a faint tremble moving down his own legs also, as he clung lightly, needing the support.

That hand in his hair moved lower, fist now gripping the back of his head.

The Prince spoke in loud whispers turning into deepest moans, breathing heavily between them.

“Good, good – God yes. _Oh_ yes. That’s good…like that. Just…like that. Very, very good…”

He’d been restraining himself so far but lost control for a moment and gave a shallow thrust forward, once, twice – hearing the muffled cough this produced from Gaston he stopped.

“Sorry, I…sorry. Mmph. Are - are you all right?”

His eyes had popped open in startled response but he closed them again. It felt easier to slow at that point rather than pause outright, and once he’d caught his breath he answered the Prince simply by continuing, trying to return to his rhythm.

“Good, I...I -- do keep going. Yes. _Yes_. Oh God. Yes.”

His own breathing was heavy, nostrils flaring, and the Prince was shaking. He was so hard inside him, cock curling upward against the roof of his mouth. Suddenly that hand in his hair was dragging at him and he was confused.

But the Prince was struggling to speak: “Pull…pull back a bit – you’re not going to be able to swallow-”

The warning was appreciated; within seconds the other climaxed. More on reflex than planning he slid his mouth off him halfway.

The Prince gave a cry so sharp it sounded painful, breaking and gasping as he tried to regain composure. He let go of his hair, mussing it in the process, and wavered a bit before he sank slowly to his knees.

Meanwhile Gaston had turned away from him. Not remotely prepared for the heat of another’s release in his mouth, the texture, the taste, his reaction was abrupt.

He spat out onto the floor, coughing - coughing _hard_ , as he tried to regain control of his throat.

Though he sounded wearier and undone, the Prince still recovered quicker. He sat back, giving a wild chuckle, set about putting his clothing to rights.

Gaston was still hacking and rasping, lungs heaving as he fought to breathe normally.

“ _That_ sound,” the Prince said. He was grinning, leering; voice insufferably smug. How he could be so while also panting heavily, who knew. “God help me – I will never grow tired of that sound.”

He lifted his head then. Gave the Prince a look nothing short of baleful.

“You…you --!”

He hated hearing he was essentially last in a line of conquests; he thought himself expert when it came to fucking but here he was so far out of his depth. Being corrupted in something entirely different than his rough, straightforward ways.

He shook his head stiffly and met the Prince in a glower, eyes blazing fury, mouth contorting; the look he gave typically right before he hit somebody hard as he could.

But he couldn’t do it. Even now – even _now_.

Watching him struggle, the Prince slid closer so he was kneeling right beside him.

“You poor soul. You really don’t know what to do with yourself, do you?”

He eyed him, a long pause, then he pulled a silk embroidered handkerchief from his breast pocket.

He attempted to pull away as the Prince’s hands reached out but again his body failed him, will surrendering.

He could only sit there on his heels as the Prince thoroughly, almost daintily, wiped off his chin and mouth and got the stray residue that’d found its way into his facial hair.

“There we are,” he murmured, gazing from beneath fair lashes. His eyes were even more shockingly bright this close. “Much better.”

Folding the handkerchief neatly he tucked it away again. He cupped his left hand beneath Gaston’s chin, tracing lips with his thumb.

His mouth parted, breath warm against the Prince’s fingertips. Even as he continued to glare.

This seemed to amuse him greatly. “ _Such_ a face,” he observed, chuckling. Like he was but a sullen child. “Can you truly be so upset with me?”

Gaston’s voice was low. He sneered, even though the disgust he felt wasn’t with the Prince. “You have no idea what it is that you have done.”

He smirked, eyebrows lifting. “On the contrary. I know _exactly_ what it is that I’ve done.”

The Prince’s hand shifted position. Suddenly it grasped the bottom line of his jaw, around his neck. Tilting head up and back, holding him there, exposing the front of his throat.

He could feel the palm against his Adam’s apple as he swallowed in anxiety – the pressure was nowhere near enough to obstruct his breathing, but it was firm.

He was lost again. He cringed from the Prince’s gaze, wanting to break from those piercing eyes but completely unable to move. All he could do was sit there, face contorting with internal agony even as that grasp sent a shiver along his spine.

It didn’t matter he was bigger, broader, that he could do serious damage before the other could call for help if only he moved to act – his hands hung uselessly at his sides. His body felt weak. Fragile.

And with his other hand the Prince reached down between Gaston’s legs, pressing beneath the base of his cock.

“There it is,” the Prince murmured, rubbing through his clothing, feeling the erection that had already started.

He was trembling, held in place tightly by the grip on his throat, breath coming in stifled whimpers. He was on fire with equal parts shame and longing. He couldn’t understand. What had this man done to him – what kind of spell did he have him under?

Even as it was undoing him – he felt like he never wanted it to stop.

The Prince examined his expression with cool, canny satisfaction. He pulled the hand away from his breeches.

He kept him pinned by the throat. With the other hand he petted him, caressing the side of his face.

“It didn’t take me long to find your measure, now did it. I was right all along. You’ve never permitted anyone to overpower you, but now – well, _now_.”

He imbued the word with meaning. Speaking into his ear again, an intent merciless litany. Those eyes far too close for comfort.

“All your life – it’s not as if anyone stood a chance. You’ve always been taller and stronger, haven’t you. Who could push a man like you to the ground, show you what it feels like? But now you know.”

He smoothed some errant strand of hair away, the motion precise and gentle. Gaston shut his eyes, but there was nowhere to go.

“All your focus on glory, fighting, conquest. But this was what you really wanted. Your true heart’s desire.”

He was wincing, trying not to shake – he wanted the Prince to stop talking. He needed him to stop talking. Not because what he was saying was wrong. He needed to stop _hearing_ it.

 “What is it that kills you the more?” he asked, smoothly. “What is it that makes you most horrified – what fills you with dread, to think if the people in the village knew? That you’ve been with a man; that a man has fucked you, held you down, hit you, put you to your knees, made you beg…”

He couldn’t suppress the sound he made, small and strangled where it was trapped in his throat.

“Or,” the Prince finished, “is it that you enjoyed it?”

He had his face in both hands now, cupping his jaw, petting his cheek. He drew out every syllable as he spoke softly.

“You’ll always know. It doesn’t matter, what you do after this. What you choose to do to the farmgirls in the village. To the girls at the tavern. To the ones at the brothels outside of town. Even to that little friend of yours, the one that any with eyes can see positively _adores_ you – after all, it’s not like you can pretend you’re too good for him _now_.”

A hand ran down the muscles of his neck to under his shirt, stroking his chest. Even as the words made him writhe, he leaned into that touch.

“You’ll always remember this. It’s a part of you that you can no longer pretend to ignore.”

He was hanging there helplessly on every word, every gesture. He was bound in place as firmly as if by any chain. His skin flushed with heat, something unnamed and unknown deep within his body aching.

“Look at me,” the Prince ordered. He forced his eyes open – the Prince seemed even closer than he’d been before somehow, unblinking, and for a moment he forgot to breathe.

The Prince smiled. “Do you want me to touch you now?”

He felt like he had forgotten how to speak. It felt like it had been so long. His voice came hoarsely. “Yes.”

The hand returned to the front of his breeches, pressing harder this time. Gaston leaned much as he could into the friction. The other hand remained firmly on his neck and jaw, not to contain him but because he needed the support.

“Do you want more?” the Prince asked.

His breath broke against his teeth. “Y-Yes,” he entreated.

He undid the lacing and reached inside, caressing him with the tips of his fingers before pulling his cock free. He kept his hand on the shaft, grip firm, squeezing down.

“Do you like that?”

“Yes.”

Not releasing him, his fingers rubbed some spot near the base just behind his stones. The pace was building. They both were breathing audibly.

“And, do you like that?”

“Yes.”

The Prince ordered him with every tightening of his grip, every press of his fingers. His commands lightning-fast.

“Say it again.”

“Yes.”

“Say it louder.”

“Yes!”

Gaston didn’t hesitate each time, body rocked by every stroke. His own voice increasingly frantic.

“Beg me for it.”

“Please, my lord.”

“Beg me harder.”

“ _Please_ , my lord!”

“Again!”

_“Please, my lord!”_

One last pull, one last press, one last hard grasp – he came with a broken shudder, air exploding from his lungs. The Prince caught him in the curve of one arm, held onto him so he didn’t fall over to the floor.

He didn’t know how long he remained there, jaw slackened and hanging slightly open, eyes half closed, head leaning against the Prince’s chest. Hearing the beating of his heart.

It sounded impossibly steady, compared to the thudding rush he felt within his own chest.

The Prince wiped himself clean, incongruously using his own clothing, before running fingers through Gaston’s hair.

“You know even after the curse broke, I had my concerns,” he confided. Quiet yet assured. “What could the future possibly hold? Was everything going to turn out for the best?”

All Gaston could think was that, for once in his life, he knew the feeling.

“But I know now it will be well. Yes, everything is going to turn out fine…”

Gently pushing him away he lifted Gaston’s face in both his hands.

How could he look so – alight with fondness and yet so cool, commanding? It was a terrible kind of beauty. Hard to look at as the sun.

Harder still to look away again.

“My life, and my marriage, will be happy as they should be.” The Prince met his eyes, voice lowering. “Because I will have my wife – and I will have my whore.”

The sentence struck home in its meaning. He gazed at him helplessly.

“Won’t I?” the Prince prompted.

That sinking feeling was pulling him down again, because he knew – he knew there was only one answer. One answer by now that was all he was capable to give.

So he gave it.

“Yes, my lord,” he said to him, voice small.

The Prince beamed with satisfaction.

“Very good,” he spoke soothingly, pleased. “Good boy.”

And as Gaston lingered there, motionless, eyes closing again in surrender as he took a heavy breath - the Prince leaned to press a kiss to his forehead.

“Good,” he repeated, sighing; “ _Mon cher_ Monsieur Gaston…”


End file.
